


Birds of Prey

by HelenaKey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Banishment, Character Study, Chronic Illness, Extended Metaphors, F/M, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, Fever Dreams, Fictional Religion & Theology, Hurt Loki (Marvel), Internal Conflict, Loki-centric, Not Thor: Ragnarok (2017) Compliant, Post-Canon, Symbolism, Álfheimr | Alfheim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-05 03:25:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaKey/pseuds/HelenaKey
Summary: Life in Alfheim is not as sweet as Loki thought it will be. Afflicted by a mysterious disease, and unwilling to reveal to his wife the secrets of his past, the fates force him once again to make difficult choices.Sequel of Seeds of Promise.





	Birds of Prey

**Author's Note:**

> Well, talking about unexpected sequels. I was unsure whether to write this or not, because I kind of liked the way I finished Seeds of Promise. Ambiguity is a type of ending that I enjoy a lot, and a continuation seemed to somehow break the magic, idk. But, hey, apparently I do not control my own imagination, so this happened. It's been a while since I've wanted to write something regarding Loki and Odin's contradictory relationship, and this seemed like a great moment to do so. 
> 
> Contrary to most people in the fandom, I am reacious when it comes to demonizing Odin as a father. I've read fincs in which he literally doesn't give a crap about Loki and is all too eager to send him to the dungeous to be tortured, and frankly, Odin might be a terrible father to both Loki, Thor AND Hela, but I don't think he would do something like that to any of them, no matter the circumstance. Yeah, he's cruel and selfish and constantly manipulates his loved ones to get what he wants, but I think there's a far stretch between that and putting your child in a torture chamber. He hasn't beaten Thanos in that particular form of pareting, I think. So, you don't have to take everything Loki thinks about him in this piece for granted; god knows he's biased when it comes to his parental issues. 
> 
> Just like the last time, I had waaaay too much fun writting sick!Loki so I'm sorry if that becomes a recurrent subject in this series. Which might or might not have a continuation. I guess time will tell. Hope you enjoy the reading ;)

The cawing of raging crows disrupted the serenity of the morning, making Loki look up from his book and through the bedroom window. As the prying birds pecked furiously against the glass, he stared at them with a frown on his face – surrounding the cup of green tea that Sigyn had made for him with long, cold fingers. They were insidious animals, nosy and unclean, and the sight of them usually awoke in him feelings of contempt. He was ever a neat, well-groomed man with little to no love for any creature that could be considered a vermin. However, as he laid eyes upon them that morning, shivering with the aftermaths of a night fever and sickly pale with the exhaustion of his unknown illness, Loki was seized by a nostalgic, almost wistful emotion. For he still connected the awful cries of predatory birds with the remote days of his childhood, forever under the rapt vigilance provided by Huginn and Muninn – his father’s winged watchers.

He had been a sickly child, often tormented by rare diseases to which his brother, stronger in body and spirit, seemed to be immune. He was seldom allowed to beyond the palace gates, and never to be left alone outside his private quarters – the nagging sound of rustled feathers and savage cawing trailing his every step a constant reminder of his father’s concerns. He knew now that this disposition towards malady was a result of the unfortunate circumstances of his birth – a congenital defect, not unlike the thinness of his frame or the precariousness of his height. It had been an enlightening discovery, and even now it brought a conflicted frown to Loki’s face, for never before he had thought of himself as a disable person. In the eyes of the Jotnar, however, he was, and this was a thought that troubled him deeply. Now that once again a grave disease afflicted him, Loki was faced with a vulnerability that he now knew came naturally to him, and he was torn between feeling vexed and relieved by the fact that fighting it was not whitin his power.

The crows before his window took flight, their dreadful hustle now muted in the distance, and Loki found himself wondering if they left at the call of an old, withered king – eager to answer, as they had in centuries past, the inquiries he might have about his youngest’ welfare. He berated himself for the sentiment, knowing now as well as he did that the Allfather’s fretfulness was not inspired by love for him, but for the intricate paths he had crafted for his future. Odin took him in with the impassive care of a carpenter shaping a new tool; a blade eager in the carvings of bone and flesh. To him he was but a piece of a puzzle, something to be used and discarded at the call of whim. He couldn’t allow himself to forget that – not even in his feverish state.

The thought left a bitter, coppery taste in his mouth, and Loki brought the cup of tea to his lips in an attempt to get rid of it. He turned his gaze to look at the small village before him, wrapping the sheets clinging to his shoulders tighter around himself; he was suddenly feeling very cold. The ancient churches of the town, inhabited by healers and decrepit priests, was overflowing with visitors – the elven folk all too eager to start with the weekly prayers to their Gods. Loki took notice of the rowdy crowd from his remote cabin, feeling strangely detached from their small world of normalcy. He sunk further into the large armchair, as though trying to escape from it.

He had slept through the night and the morning as well, no longer kept awake by the soreness of his muscles and the restlessness that usually grew in him after laying in bed for so long. His face, wizened and flushed, showed the signs of an ailment contracted months ago. The shivers and the sweat dripping down his forehead had become now so familiar a sensation that it disturbed him no more; he felt lulled by the fever, like a child nodding off in the steady rocking of his mother. His body felt weak and unnaturally light, and there was a blankness to his gaze that unsettled him deeply when staring at the mirror. Loki felt as though he were losing a battle, but he wasn’t sure over what or against whom.  

Long ago, he had giving up on the Ancient Gods that had been worshipped by his parents, finding it unnatural for a Jotunn to pray to Asgardian deities, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to honor the traditions of Jotunheim; a land to which he had no allegiance, save for his blood. Faithless and bitter, yet unwilling to further worry his wife with the deterioration of his health, Loki endured his sickness alone – only allowing Sigyn to take care of him when the fever dragged him down to a delirious state. He hid from her his discomfort, dreading the sinking feeling that guilt left in its wake whenever her brows furrowed in concern. Secretly, however, he relished in her affectionate care, and was intimately touched by the smallest of gestures - reminiscing his mother’s loving attendance in the ailments of his youth. The way she lightly kissed his forehead when checking his temperature, and the fondness in her smile when she feed him a sweet chicken broth that he was too weak to eat on his own made Loki feel warm and joyful.

It was a feeling hard to express in words. He rarely did, afraid he wouldn’t muster the eloquence. The longer his disease lasted, the less Loki felt in control of himself; everyday he grew more convinced that malady was changing him from inside out - turning him into a man that he couldn’t recognize. He felt awkward, unsure of his words and actions. He spoke in a soft, raspy voice that didn’t sound like his own, and sometimes fever scorched his brain so deep and fiercely that his wits abandoned him, and his speech became dull and slurry. Whenever this happened Loki refused to speak, and made a habit of wrapping a large, wet handkerchief around his forehead, not minding the wetness of his hair or the droplets of water constantly running down his temples. When he was feeling stronger and more clearheaded, he spent his days reading the books of the small, humble library that he had begun to build since his arrival to Alfheim, getting lost in spellbooks written by mad sorcerers, penetrating the secrets of dead languages and reciting verses of lapidary castings.

He often had nightmares, and more than once woke up in the early morning in a panic, barely aware of Sigyn’s soft, shushing gestures and feeling his heart beating madly at the base of his throat. In his most febrile dreams, Loki was haunted by the incessant cawing of the Allfather’s spies; a devilish sound that had him drenched in sweat and panting heavily throughout the night, unsure whether to feel safe under the childish pretense of fatherly protection or threatened by the watchful eyes of a ruthless enemy. The ominous calamity of change kept looming in the horizon, and the icy blue eye of his inclement father seemed to be, once again, a window into Loki’s uncertain fate.

 


End file.
